Dreams of Beauty
by Fyrie
Summary: Before there was the girl, there was only the music and that which made it.


Notes: For some inexplicable reason, I finally found a Phantom of the Opera muse, nearly 11 years exactly after falling into the fandom. The Erik seems to be a culmination of several, including Youka Wao and Haruno Sumire (of the Takarazuka productions), Charles Dance (the TV series) and aspects of the movie-musical, a Phantom I've heard recently and the Susan Kay novel. Needless to say, I was somewhat surprised, but indulged in this little fic :)

From what I guesstimate, Erik is about 12/13 at this point.

8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8.8

One by one, the lamps of the Opera Populaire dimmed. The spots of gold faded, shadows dimming the boldness of the opulent decor to a less garish hue, then to blackness.

The empty stage was silent.

Yet in the silence, it seemed as if something was holding its breath, lest it be heard. Moments crept by, but there was no sign that anyone remained in the deserted auditorium.

Even those who laboured behind the scenes were gone now, some to the attics where they had taken up residence so long ago that they could not even remember a time when they lived elsewhere, others slipping out into the rain-slicked night.

From the orchestra pit, there was a soft sound. Metal shifted against stone and wood, carefully, cautiously. A whisper of air rose, stirring dust motes gathered around the age-dulled feet of the conductor's stand.

Several pages of the latest score were scattered on the floor, forgotten by musicians in their haste to adjourn to the nearby inn, or less commonly to their homes. With the run of _Don Giovanni _finished once more, such neglect was not uncommon.

Less common was the tangled ruin than lay beneath an upturned chair; there had been a disagreement and a foolhardy musician had voiced an opinion of a dangerous variety, which had been overheard by the subject of the opinion, the present and rather highly-strung Prima Donna.

The musician had escaped, barely unscathed. His instrument, abandoned in his wild flight from the Prima Donna, her shrill voice and excessively long nails, had not been so fortunate.

The once-polished body lay in two pieces, the strings severed with the violence of the blow that had brought it against the floor. They coiled up, silver strands, shying from the pain of separation from their other half.

From the shadows of the barrier separating audience from those who cherished the music even more, a pale, slender hand emerged. Fingertips brushed the coiled strings, flinching at the shrill, broken sound, a keening symphony of pain.

With a whisper that may have been grief or apology, the owner of the pale hand slipped from the shadows to kneel beside the shattered remains of the violin, fingers shaping the once-perfect profile. His hands trembled and he ignored the soft sound of a tear striking the fabric of his breeches.

With the tenderness of a father for a beloved child, he gathered the instrument to him, every splinter, every fragment. Sound broke achingly from the wood, strings and wires, echoed by the near-silent grief of a boy not yet a man.

Returning to the shadows from which he had emerged, he eased through an opening that would be invisible for those who did not know where to look for it and descended once more into the quiet solitude of the lower levels of the Opera.

As oppressive as the echoing gloom of the empty theatre was, there was a sense of peace in the lower basements. It was not a peace borne of activity stilled, but more an air of gentle neglect in a building so vast that it was impossible that every inch would be used at any given time.

Moving through the darkness, a shadow among many, the slight figure seemed as solid as a ghost and silent as a breeze. Only the silvery whimper of the violin marked his passage through the empty halls.

Down, he went, through hidden doorways and unknown staircases. In the basements, there were many ways that had been forgotten as those who worked in the Opera House came and went with the passage of time.

Though there were many paths through the building, there was but one way to reach his shelter. In the very heart of the foundations of the building, where the music settled as it quieted, the echoes lingering long after a performance ended, he had made his home. Surrounded on all sides by a lake, he could hear every nuance of the music, every lyric ringing with utter clarity, every false note and every true moment of perfection carrying upon the water and through the caverns, a haven of musical delight.

Stepping lightly onto a boat that had been there for as long as he could recall, even before his hands were strong enough to bear the guiding pole, he closed his eyes. The quiet slap of the water and the echoing moans of the strings in his hand were the only sounds, and he knelt, laying his burden down.

Poling away from the world of men, he guided the boat blindly through the naked black. A distant gleam of a single, lonely candle was his only guide, but it was not truly required. He knew this place better than any other part of the building, and he knew the rest of the building better than any other person who moved within it.

Only when the prow of the narrow boat touched the carefully-hewn steps that lead into his domain proper did he truly look to the light. It was no true friend. Darkness was his ally, that was the lesson life had taught him. Light showed only the harsh reality, and one could not hide in the light.

He gathered the broken violin up carefully from the bench of the boat, then stepped onto motionless land. He liked the motion, the natural roll and shift of the boat on the water that should have been still, but seldom was. Often, he would sit in the boat and listen to the operas far above him, his eyes closed, wrapping the music and the motion about him like a cloak.

The strings of the violin shivered with the fresh movement, and in the depthless dark of the lake-side sanctuary, their cries echoed back like the sob of a frightened child.

"Hush," he whispered softly, coiling them gently around his fingers, soothing the wild vibrations. Save one, they were all snapped, and he wondered what manner of pain it would be to suffer such a merciless blow, never to meet their brethren again, to be eternally separated, their delicate music silenced.

It would be like having his voice torn from him, he thought. Never to be able to sing again, music denied him, ever out of reach.

Tears welled in his eyes and he turned his face from the pitiful corpse in his arms. A whispered apology fell from his lips and he wished, oh how he wished, that the man had stood his ground. Better superficial wounds to a musician than this mortal blow to such a beautiful instrument.

Making his way through the disorder of props and fragments of forgotten sets that he had loved too greatly to see destroyed, he approached his work table. Laying the broken violin down, he gently spread the pieces on the only clear part of the surface, then moved to light a second candle.

A third candle joined it, the white wax trickling into a mournful pool at the foot. The pale gold puddle of light cast a bloody hue on the polished wood and the youth sat down slowly, his eyes moving over each fragmented part.

Then he started to reluctantly remove irredeemable sections. The broken strings were placed to once side, but not forgotten, as he started to piece together then body of the instrument.

The three candles had trickled into naught more than white stalactites, tendrils of wax suspended on the twisted, abandoned candelabra. The youth had replaced them as he needed them, and when music drifted down from above, he raised his head in dazed surprise, eyes bloodshot with fatigue.

With fingers raw from effort, he rubbed his weary face. His mask had been cast aside hours before, forgotten now. It was never needed here, in a world where none save those things most precious to him lingered.

On the table before him, the violin lay in one piece once more, though shards and splinters were still protruding. Glue gleamed on the wood, and he knew it would dry in a delicate pattern of shimmering scars, marking the harshness the instrument had suffered at the hands of one who had nerve enough to call herself a singer.

But enough. Enough for now.

Rising from the low stool, he stumbled to the pile of linens and retired drapes that served well enough as a bed. Sleep was fast in coming, and to the sound of Meyerbeer he sank into slumber.

Time meant nothing and when he woke, he only remembered to eat a little of the food that Mam'zelle delivered for him because he half-stumbled upon the basket. She was kind, Mam'zelle, and always found him nice things to eat, though he did not do so very often. Too much food was a luxury and he could not eat more than a small share.

Crumbs dusting his lips, he returned to his task, a half-chewed morsel resting on his tongue until he recalled its presence some time later. So immersed was he in his task that he took a moment to recall how to swallow.

His fingers moved deftly on fragile wood and delicate springs. His mind bent to the task, he barely noted the stiffness in his back or the ache in his eyes until his work was interrupted once more by the strains of Meyerbeer ringing about his home.

It became a pattern, a repeating movement, and he knew it would continue until his task was done. Perhaps it took only a few days, perhaps a week or more, but only when he was forced to venture beyond his home did he see the end of this duty he had chosen to take upon himself.

Once more, Mam'zelle had placed food at their secret place, but he ignored it in favour of rising through the levels of the opera.

Clad in dark clothing, hidden in shadows, a thrill of fear running through him, he knew he risked everything by emerging during the performances, yet there was no other way to gain what he needed.

The theatre was in the familiar state of organised chaos and never had he been more grateful for his hidden passages and steps. Flurries of anxious dancers hastened this way and that, and he saw Mam'zelle hurrying among them. Whistles and gestures passed between the stagehands, while singers rushed to their dressing rooms.

Unseen, the youth slipped to the place where he had first gathered the ruins of the violin, hidden between gratings and shadows, as the orchestra took their seats. Beneath the pit, there was a low opening that extended beneath the whole section, and on the far side, he could see what he needed.

Holding his breath, he crawled through dust, forgotten pages and fractured reeds towards the cases by the orchestra doorway, where the musicians carelessly stacked them one upon another.

Behind him, the orchestra started to tune, and the boy winced.

One day, when they would listen to him, he would tell them what no one else would dare; of the dullness of the third viola, of the weakness of the upper register of their lead flautist, of the abysmal timing of the second row of violins.

The day that the musicians took joy from the music instead of tiresome labour, he would rejoice.

He forced his attention back to his task, his fingers delving and invading case after case, and when he was done, he hid in the crevasse beneath the stage once more. The world about him vibrated with sound and he revelled in it, and in the roar of applause from the audience beyond.

However, his choice of performance was the one that followed as instruments were closed away for the night. Let man be inhuman to man, he mused with a satisfied smile, as the first row of violinists turned on members of the second, claiming theft of choice pieces. Voices rose and fell in ire, and sated, the boy crept back through the darkness to the instrument he was tending.

It waited, softly bathed in the light of the remaining candle.

Reaching beneath his dark shirt, the boy withdrew a dozen silvery strings, laying the basket from Mam'zelle at his feet, a perfectly good bow resting atop her generous offering of food.

"I know they are not the same," he whispered, caressing the body of the violin gently. "But they were neglected as you were." He uncurled one, smoothing it into place with his fingertips. "You see?"

The delicate wire shivered under his fingers as he fastened it in place and delicately plucked it. Soft sound resonated, accepting, as beautiful as the broken strings had been jarring. Each that followed unfurled into place alongside the solitary survivor, until at last the violin resembled its former beauty as best it could.

While it was true that it was marked with scars of damage, chips and splinters missing, the boy gazed at it with delight. To see something that had been destroyed and abandoned regain so much of its beauty and potential was his great weakness, and he ran his fingertips across the strings.

While it had yet to be tuned, he could not restrain himself. Placing the lip of the body between his chin and his shoulder, he scooped up the bow, and holding his breath, he ran it across the strings.

The tuneless music rang across the surface of the lake as clearly as any opera. While it had lost its purity and clarity, there was a haunting character to the sound that sent a thrill of delight down his spine.

And lowering the instrument, the boy who would one day be a rumour, a legend and a Phantom laughed.


End file.
